Chapter 3
Danny
God, it feels good to say her name. I want to say it again. So I do.
“Gracie.”
Then I say it twice more in my head (Gracie, Gracie) while she adorably looks anywhere but my face for a full thirty seconds.
With her eyes elsewhere, I admire Gracie up close.
She’s as beautiful as ever. Her hair is tied back halfway with a green ribbon, matching her Sharks sweatshirt.
Her fair complexion is still dotted with a smattering of light brown freckles.
I search for any new ones since I last committed them to memory, recalling how I used to count them with my lips.
Her legs look just as long and lean as before, but her hips are a little curvier than I remember.
It takes everything in me not to groan in appreciation.
“Hey, Dan,” she says, all serious.
Oof. Dan. She only ever called me that when we were arguing.
For now, I take a breath and choose not to address the whole “Dan” atrocity. I’ll save that conversation for later, if I secure a later.
“Did you enjoy the game?” I ask, with a fake frown, playing into her Very Serious mood.
“I’m sorry you lost,” the little liar replies, her walls firmly present.
A smile takes over my whole face. My real smile. I probably look like a lunatic. It feels so foreign, grinning like this. After Gracie and I went our separate ways, I quickly learned how to fake my way through polite pleasantries with most people out of necessity.
“We both know you’re not sorry,” I toss back.
Her lips part in surprise with a small smile. Finally, a glimpse of my Gracie girl and not this “Susan from Accounting” persona she has going on.
“Yeah, I’m not.” She glances down at her outfit. “For obvious reasons, I guess.”
She’s so cute, wearing her little frown and actively rooting against my success.
Gracie taps her sneaker-clad foot on the travertine floor of this massive luxury suite filled with friends of friends of friends of someone’s friends, and all I can think about is how much she still looks like mine.
I grin, gesturing to her sweatshirt. “Still a Sharks fan, then?”
“Ride or die,” she replies, her multicolored eyes a bit brighter and playful now.
She then seems to remember she’s talking to her former best friend and ex-boyfriend, and those walls go right back up again. We both awkwardly stare at each other for a few moments, waiting for someone to break the silence. I do the honors.
“So, do you want to go for milkshakes? Or to my house?”
I snap my mouth shut in horror. My house?
My therapist is really going to have a field day with this whole interaction.
Dr. Sheila Biddle and I have actually spoken at length about how a conversation might go in the event I were lucky enough to see Gracie again.
I will regret to inform her that I’m using approximately zero of those techniques right now.
“I, uh, just meant my house for privacy reasons. It can be hard for me to go out around here without being noticed.” Shit, that sounded so cocky. I look at the floor—I never could control the way my words come out around Gracie.
After a few beats, I meet her eyes, and I’m surprised to find amusement on her face. I hold my breath while I wait for an answer.
“Sure, Dan.”
“Danny,” I mutter grumpily.
“I took the E train straight from the airport, but we can go to your house, I g—”
“Great! Let’s go. Now,” I interject like someone with absolutely no impulse control. I’m clearly suffering side effects from being tackled. I just never thought I’d see her here of all places. Nothing can bring me down, not even her adorable moody ass.
“DT! Hey, man.” Freshly showered and dressed in his postgame suit, Kendric, our kicker, walks down the opposite end of the hallway as Gracie and I leave the suite. “Who’s the—”
“Talk to you later, Ken!” I cheerily interrupt, not letting anyone or anything distract me from Gracie.
I usher her toward my red G-wagon as we walk out of the facility, gesturing at my vehicle like I’m a model on a game show and it’s the grand prize.
The luxury car gods are clearly smiling down upon me, because I just had it detailed this past weekend.
Usually, there’s at least two old protein shakes in the cupholders, coupons that probably expired when MTV still played music videos, and loose change scattered on the floor like confetti.
An unfamiliar security guard narrows his eyes at me, and I realize what this must look like. Me, a giant man, looking maniacally happy while shepherding a frighteningly beautiful, yet hesitant-looking woman to my car. I want to say it’s not what it looks like, but it’s exactly what it looks like.
I give him a small, friendly wave that I hope says “I know we’ve never met, but I’m a nice guy and this woman is here willfully, Officer.
” He continues watching me like a hawk, so I don’t think I was successful, but at least we’ve finally reached my car.
I grab Gracie’s clear backpack and place it in the back seat.
Then, I walk around to the passenger side and open the door for her.
As she climbs in, I catch a glimpse of my face in the side mirror. Holy shit. If I went to open a bank account right now, they’d turn me away. My smile looks borderline deranged. Is this what ten years of longing does to a man?
I quickly glance at the security guard again. He’s still watching, and now I appear even more suspicious for double-checking he’s there. Dragging a hand down my face in resignation, I hurry into the car before he calls the police.
As I reverse out of the parking space and look over my shoulder, Gracie turns to face me. In this position, we are instantly, extraordinarily, wonderfully close. I give a small smile and sigh. She rears back so fast her skull almost smacks the passenger window.
Her hesitant voice echoes in the car as she faces me once more, this time from a short distance. “You’re probably wondering why—”
“You cold?” I interrupt and reach for the temperature dial.
“Um, I think I’m okay. If you’re looking for a reason as to why I’m—”
“This car has an advanced climate control system. It has multi-zone temperature settings and heated seats. The seats actually have six settings, rather than the usual three, so you can go from, like, a light warmth to burn-your-ass-off if you so desire. Not that anyone would want to burn their ass off, especially your ass. Ope.” What in the hell am I saying right now?
I didn’t even make it one hour before I brought up Gracie’s ass.
I venture a look over and see that she’s avoiding eye contact and looking straight out the passenger window. Smart.
“Sorry about that. Safety is important, so actually, it’s probably not good that the seat heat goes up that high. I should, um, bring that up the next time I go to the car dealership or something.” I try to switch the subject. “Radio preferences?”
Gracie makes an unintelligible noise, seemingly pausing her attempts to tell me why she’s here. Truthfully, I don’t want to hear it; I’m gravely worried she’ll disappear for another ten years as soon as she accomplishes whatever she came here to do.
I turn the dial to a general pop/rock radio channel with inoffensive music, the kind that plays at the dentist during a root canal. Without knowing if she’s still into emo punk, this is the safest option.
She stares straight out the front window and wordlessly twirls her hair. Given everything that’s occurred, I count it as a win and turn up the heat.